


but you held me, closely while i screamed.

by Furzeflower



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, F/M, Self-Harm, uh.... there sure are things in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28391901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furzeflower/pseuds/Furzeflower
Summary: Subjuggulators, especially not those with the caste name Makara, are permitted to harm their quadrant-holders. For this highest sin, Kurloz must repent.In other words, Kurloz wakes to his lovers' screams and makes a horrible revelation.
Relationships: Meulin Leijon/Kurloz Makara
Kudos: 9





	but you held me, closely while i screamed.

**Author's Note:**

> yes this is short and stupid no i do not care <3  
> title blatantly stolen from PhemieC's beautiful song, "Thin Lines" -https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIJMJOVuWWs

Screaming. His matesprit was screaming. Tiny pinpricks of pain radiated through his chest, and when he glanced down, purple blood dribbled from the wounds, flowing down his torso. 

His matesprit was screaming his name. High pitched, keening, and interspersed with sobs that wracked her entire form. Her eyes were scrunched from the magnitude of her wailing, and tears ran freely from their corners down her chin. He scooped her closer, pulling her off his chest and into his arms. The green sopor they dreamed in slipped down their naked forms, not viscous enough to cling to their skin. 

As he lifted them higher, out of the slime, he was distantly aware that her loudest cries had stopped. She had stilled at his touch, seemingly recognizing her lover despite the stupor of her suffering. Her eyes were still clenched in pain, and sobs escaped her mouth with every ragged breath she took. 

Kurloz's calloused fingers rubbed circles over her apple-round cheeks, brushing away the olive-tinted tears that ran freely down to her chin. For a lowblood, her skin was cold. So cold, too cold. Cold like him, like the purple mirth that ran through his veins. 

"Meulin?" He croaked, low voice still fogged with sleep. "Talk to me. Meu, speak to me." A pained moan was all that answered him. She hissed in pain, and he could feel her curl closer to him for comfort. 

His pumper stopped in his chest, still as a stone. True, unbridled fear struck him for the first time in his many sweeps.

Just what had he done? 

He called her name again, albeit in vain. It was then that he noticed the olive that marred his hands. It was sticky, warm, and smelled of ferrous.

All he could smell was blood. It overwhelmed his senses as if he were drowning in its sweetness. Green. Everywhere - it had dripped over their skin, covered her shoulders and chest, mixed with the lime-tinted sopor. His own blood, purple and holy as it was, poured from the wounds on his chest, mixing with hers in their recouperacoon.  
He set her down gently, lowering her head into his lap. She had been laying on his chest when he awoke, and it was her needle-sharp nails digging into his skin that startled him into consciousness. 

He carefully pulled her curls aside, a dark tangle of keratin, now stained verdant as the Beforan moon. Thin trails of green, thin lines of blood that dripped from her aurals. 

Her ears. 

He had ruptured her ears. Despite the thick, numbing sopor that coated his skin, they had reached him. The Prince communed with the Messiahs in his sleep, a way to reach his holy purpose. His Lords had left him a message, but at a higher cost then he'd wanted to pay.

Tears threatened to spill from his optics, though he pushed them back with great effort. He was weak, this he knew, but there were more important matters ahead. 

He crooned to her, voice low and soothing. Sweet nothings and reassurance rumbled through his chest, and he knew by the way Meulin stirred that she could feel, if not hear, the vibrations. 

As he spoke, he carefully inspected her ears. He knew in his pumper he'd deafened her. She bled, and bled, and bled and it wouldn't cease. There was no magic from the dark circus or otherwise, that could heal this. No sylph, no cursed motifs or gods from that wretched game could heal her. All he could do was hold her close. 

His love, his life. Muelin. Kitten. 

He'd deafened her. Messiahs, he'd hurt his matesprit. Hurt her good and fierce, and now she'd never hear his Holy sermon again. 

He must repent.

Heaven-sent or otherwise, his words had deafened her. He must repent for his deeds, and he knew this. He could not stand to see another twilight without atonement for his sin.

Rage filled his mind. He was the Prince of this most primal emotion, and it was his to control To will. To use.  
He felt distant twitches in the air around them and realized it was his psychics and their effects. Without realizing it, he'd put his lover to sleep with the aid of his chucklevoodoos, gifts from above. 

Good. Maybe she'd be in less pain this way. 

With all the effort of Atlas himself, Kurloz turned his rage from his Gods, his Messiahs, and turned it inwards. To himself, for being so weak. To himself, for being so attached to the gutterblood in his arms. And to his treacherous tongue, for letting loose the howl that had hurt his dearest as it did. 

For her, he was flushed. She held his pusher, his deepest reds, his sweetest thoughts. Their merrymaking, conjoinment of the highest, was the finest he'd ever partaken of. He'd deafened her, and now she sobbed in his arms, her cries piercing his own ears like needles. 

Like needles. 

He must repent.


End file.
